


Seorsum

by drunkonsmut



Series: The Doctor and the Professor [26]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonsmut/pseuds/drunkonsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick Chilton is framed and disappears from Baltimore, Maryland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written a bit differently than the rest, since I will be expanding on the Professor's background and emotions. After all it's two people in the relationship. Please tell me if it reads oddly and if you'd prefer going back to second person.
> 
>  Enjoy!

As she drives into Frederick’s gated community, her phone starts ringing. She reaches for it and answers automatically.  

“Hello?”

The prolonged silence on the other end makes her frown. “Hello?” She repeats before pulling the phone away to look at the screen, a disclosed number. Odd.

She never gets these kinds of calls. Bringing it close to her ear, she doesn’t hear anything else. Thinking nothing of it, she hangs up and drops the phone into her bag while taking the turn to Frederick’s street.

She spots the dark vans and ambulances immediately. Worry creeps and grips her from her chest to her neck. Driving closer she sees they’re in front of the house she shares with Frederick. “Oh my god.” Heart starts speeding as she notices the yellow tape over the front lawn, the FBI agents.

She parks haphazardly in the middle of the street. Dread sits like a boulder between her breasts as she hurries toward the house. Managing to evade an officer as he tries to stop her, she walks under the tape and up the walk way. “I live here.”

The tall, imposing man she met at the last dinner party exits the house. He’s followed by two men pulling a stretcher along. The sight of the dark body bag stops her on her tracks and makes her stomach churn. A knot forms in her throat.

_Please, not Frederick. Not my darling._

Agent Crawford comes to stand before her, looking grave.

Her gaze remains on the stretcher as it’s pulled along the front lawn toward the ambulance.

“Is Frederick…is Frederick…” She trails off unable to finish such a terrible thought. Her voice sounds breathless and weak to her ears.

“You need to come with us, miss.” The underlining anger in Jack Crawford’s voice whips her gaze immediately to his face. Her brow furrows in confusion.

\--

Waking up covered in blood to a butchered Abel Gideon and two freshly murdered agents in his house gave a speed to his legs they hadn’t taken in a years.

He has to run away.

He ran through the rooms in a frenzy looking for her. Not finding hair or hide, he grabbed two of the bags in the foyer to keep both hand occupied and hopped into his car. As he turned on the engine, he vaguely remembered she had a class in the afternoon.

He needs to run away and he can’t do it alone.

He directed his car toward her old apartment, his mind having automatically made the decision for him. His hands gripped the steering wheel with desperate strength. He couldn’t control his breathing. How had this happened? How had he let this happened?

That bastard, son of a bitch.

Fear racked through his body. Won’t her apartment be the first place to look after his house? Jack Crawford already knew they were together, it won’t take the FBI long to find their way to her place. He couldn’t wait for her there.

How had this happened to him? Lecter played him so well, like a marionette on a stage, placed the knife in his hand and their blood on his clothes. 

No one would believe him now. Only her.

What was he to do?

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe.

He needs to get out of here.

He took the turn to exit the city, opposite the direction of her apartment.

After driving through a panic attack he finally stops on the side of a desolate country road.  He opens the car door and leans out to empty his stomach. He shuts the door and sits back wearily, breathing heavily and grimacing at the taste of vomit in his mouth. The stench of blood coming off his clothes, accentuated in the cramped interior of his car, makes him gag.

He pats his jacket for his phone. The realization that Hannibal Lecter could have done something to her had been the cherry topping the cheesecake of this last attack.

He has to hear her voice, he needs to talk to her, to know that she is well and sort out a way to explain that they have to leave the country.

He blocks his number at the last minute; he knows the FBI will trace his calls.

“Hello?”

He’s flooded with relief as he hears her voice and just as he opens his mouth to speak, whatever words he had to say die on his tongue. His vision blurs with tears. He couldn’t do it.

She remains the only aspect of his life not tainted by this wretched case. Even his house is now a crime scene.

He couldn’t drag her into this, beg her to flee with him, incriminate her in the very crimes he did not commit but that now surely hang above his head. He would be putting her in danger. She didn’t deserve any of it.

He slaps a hand over his mouth as he hears her repeat the greeting and soon the line falls dead.

He couldn’t bare prison; he couldn’t bare her confused, disappointed face if she ever saw him in that situation.

He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think with the smell of blood and the pain in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, the only other person to find themselves in the same situation could have some answers. He knows he doesn’t merit any kindness, but at least a shower.

He lets the tears that fall down his cheeks to dry on their own, not wanting to touch his face with bloodstained hands.

Frederick Chilton follows his panic to Wolftrap, Virginia.

\--

Will Graham listens to Dr. Chilton’s rant with practice patience, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone ready to call Jack Crawford.

He was going to call him earlier while Chilton used his shower, but something about the doctor’s sobs combined with Buster and Winston’s whining and scratching at the bathroom door stopped him.

Pity, that’s what it was. Even as it was exasperated by Chilton’s raised voice as he ranted, it was still there.

 “Of course it would be me! Hannibal was never going to kill me. I’m his patsy!”

And Dr. Lecter’s games continue masterfully so.

Hm, it seems that his theatrical gestures were not just an act, he was genuinely dramatic. Will had never seen some one zip up a sweater so angrily.

Will has no appreciation for Chilton. He was too tired to hate, he just did not care for him. But he pitied him. The sad man carried his heart and ambitions on his sleeve and was fully aware of his own shortcomings, all the more reason to pretend there were none. He was easy to read. Will had entertained himself that way during their agonizing sessions.

But Will was too tired to resent. He bounces the phone in his hand slightly.

No one deserved to have their lives ruined by Hannibal Lecter’s whims.

“You did not run and you looked plenty guil-“

Chilton was cut off by the loud vibrating of his cellphone on the surface of the table where it sat beside his bag. Chilton took a step closer to look at the screen, not reaching to answer it, and his whole demeanor changed.

Will stood from his chair slowly. From his vantage point he could make out a woman’s face and her name. He remembers her faintly from a Saturday morning that feels a century ago when he stopped by on profiling business at the hospital.

He looks back at Chilton, who’s staring intensely at the phone as it continues vibrating, the sound flooding the house. He has gone pale, his eyes have watered, the heartbreak and hopelessness on his face sent another pang of pity through Will. He realizes that that is the only truly cherished thing Chilton has in his life and it’s been torn away from him.  Dr. Chilton’s gone, there’s just a lost Frederick.

Maybe, just maybe, keeping the pieces of his game close and at hand would prove useful. Dr. Lecter couldn’t always get away with it.

Will tucks his phone away in his pants front pocket and takes a breath.

“I think it would be in your best interest to stay here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short for a first chapter, but next one will be filled with sad feelings, loneliness and longing aplenty.
> 
> I struggled with Chilton's train of thought. I want to keep him as the same pathetic, selfish and cowardly man we've come to love but in the face of actually having someone who he loves as much as and/or more than himself, whatever nobility hidden in his character comes forth. He has more than his own life to lose. 
> 
> I hope I kept everyone as themselves. I adore Will-takes-Chilton-in AU, so it sneaked in and I hope it makes for something that keep you all interested. :D
> 
> Can't wait to read your thoughts, comments and suggestions!
> 
> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> P.S. Seorsum is Latin for 'apart'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this turned out longer than I expected.  
> Because of the length and amount of flashbacks, this chapter includes only what's happening at Will's. I hope it's not a messy read.
> 
> tw: descriptions of blood and gore in dream sequence.

_Frederick stood alone in the observatory. It was cold and dark, only a spotlight shone down directly on him. His hands were freezing and his breath puffed into little clouds every time he exhaled. He trembled._

_In the dark, shadows shifted and circled him as they came closer, making him jump and turn around. He tried to command them to stop but for nothing. The shadows moved closer to his little circle of light. He called out her name in hopes she was among them._

_Like sharks surrounding a flopping diver, the dark figures neared. As they did so, they’re faces appeared. Gideon’s, of course, flashed for a moment at his right. Frederick jumped and turned, only for the dead surgeon to wisp by again._

_A vision of Alana Bloom walked by, looking at him in repulsion. She was followed by the hulking figure of Jack Crawford._

_Dr. Lecter’s profile passed him by to his left. Shivers kept running down his back, he felt goosebumps crawl up his arms._

_The observatory was in complete silence beyond Frederick’s speeding breath and occasional scared whimpers. The shadows created no noise, not even footsteps. He saw her distinct silhouette at his periphery and turn to reach out for her but only saw a flash of blue cloth disappear. His sweet girl. He called her name out desperately._

_“Please, come back. Don’t leave me.” He whispered into the darkness._

_Her face appeared in the shadows and she started near before swiftly disappearing._

_“Come back…”_

_Next he saw the horrifying image of an armless Abel Gideon take her place. Frederick grimaced and soon felt something wet and warm on his shirt. Looking down, he dismayed to find his shirt and stomach sliced open. His blood cascaded down his front and he felt his internal organs pushing forward, his hands clutched at his stomach desperately, trying to stop it._

_“No, no, no, stop!” He felt himself grow weak and colder. He fell to his knees and raised his eyes and found nothing, just darkness. He felt so alone, so afraid._

_Why wasn’t she with him? He knew she was around._

_“Frederick?” He frantically searched the darkness in the direction he heard her voice._

_A dry sob escaped his lips before he called out her name again._

_His hands and arms had become slick as his blood continued to flow out, seemly endless. He held his kidneys, stomach and liver in his finger. Why wasn’t this stopping? Why wasn’t he walking up from this?!_

_A heavy thud grabbed his attention and he weakly lifted his head to look forward. “No…”_

_Her body lay before him, dead and cold. Her throat slid open like that poor Hobbs girl’s. She wore the same blue dress from when they first met._

_He saw Hannibal Lecter’s plastic wrapped shoes walk away as he started to crawl toward her. He gasped at the hollowing, wet sensation of blood and organs slipping out of him and unto the floor._

_The blood had pooled under her head like a halo, it had stained the dress a darker shade. The wound fitted her neck like a choker.  He reached for her and pulled her limp body to his, did his best to cradle her close. Why was this happening?_

_“Nononono…sweet girl, please no…” His eyes stung, but he wasn’t awarded tears to blur the painful image of her lifeless face. With a trembling hand he tapped her cheek in an attempt to make her react. His fingers left stains of his blood on her face._

_“Please, don’t leave me...don’t die on me, please, wake up…”_

_Her eyes remained glazed and unseeing as he desperately ran his hand over her face and hair. He kissed her forehead and shook her._

_“React, damn it!” He shouted; his thumb trailed over her lips._

_But her head merely lolled sickeningly to the side and more blood flowed from the wound._

Frederick wakes with a start and a loud, shuddering gasp. His hands clutch the sheets and he shivers feeling his shirt soaked in sweat. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to chase the images away.

He’s fine. She’s fine. It’s all just in his head. Just a dream. A nightmare, like the many he’s had since he started living with Will Graham.

If that man ever hurt her, he…he won’t be able to do anything about it. Will couldn’t promise anything, but he told him that the least involved with the case and the farther away she was to Hannibal Lecter the better. Frederick was sure she won’t go near him; after all she had already little direct contact with the man. She was merely as involved as she was by association with his patsy.

Once he’s breathing normally, he pulls at the sheets and brings them to his chin. He turns on his side and blindly grabs the spare pillow on the empty side of the bed and hugs it to him fiercely to ground himself in the present. He forces his eyes to open and look at the old alarm clock on the nightstand.

5:38am, it reads in bright red.

He buries his faces in the pillow and whines. How was this his life now?

He has no job, no house, no love, and no reputation any longer to uphold.

He’s alone, a suspected serial killer, sleeping in an old bed, in borrowed clothes and more pathetic than ever before.

His only consolations remain that she’s okay and that the FBI had not made public the accusations that wrongly hover over his name.

God, how he missed her. There’s a constant ache in his chest, that dulls and tightens in intensity along the day that’s all her. Her absence. 

He missed her touches, hugs and kisses, her cooking and companionship, her comfort. She would surely offer the right words to make him feel better. She liked making him laugh, made sure he smiled. He missed how she filled his arms when he held her.

He missed her rather trying habit of rambling away in conversation and he having to reel her back to the subject at hand. He missed her singing softly while picking around the closet for something to wear, even when she couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.

He missed her laughter and voice. Will was such a grim man to live with.

Not that he himself was any price in that department.

He wonders if she missed him as much, if she stayed up nights wondering where he was. He didn’t like imagining her crying, not even for him.

And he missed his bed, his office, his clothes, the fine Colombian coffee he kept in his kitchen, his house, his books.

Frederick lifts his head slightly to look at the date in the clock, appearing in a the corner of the screen. It has only been two weeks. In the isolation of Graham’s home, it felt like months and the past like a dream.

The memories of kissing her felt like fantasies conjured in lonely days.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to go back to his life. What if it doesn’t go as Will plans? What if Hannibal finds out about everything, barges into the house and kills them both? What if Crawford finally catches whiff of his whereabouts and puts him in jail? What if it takes a year to catch Lecter?

He’d go insane, surrounded by dogs and the emptiness of Wolftrap, and he’ll surely lose her (if he hadn’t already).

The uncertainty exhausts him. He rolls unto his back and stares at the ceiling.

He had been so close to having everything he ever wanted. House, job, status and a loving partner. With his aid in capturing the actual Chesapeake Ripper, his prestige would have skyrocketed. He had gotten so cocky and greedy he bought a gorgeous engagement ring that he was sure she would love. He started making plans to ask her once Lecter’s trial had commenced. Why not a fiancée as well to top it all off?

He had bought it a couple of days before Hannibal’s last dinner party and kept it hidden in the small drawer on his suit valet. She never looks there.

When he was undoing the second travel bag he had taken in his escape, he found the small velvet box. The sight of it felt like a knife plunging between his ribs. One final mockery of his life. What an attention to detail Hannibal Lecter has.

Frederick had taken her to the party. Not only to provide normalcy and blindness about the growing suspicions he had on their host, but he asked her to ‘read’ the house, the artwork and décor. She hardly had any relation with Dr. Lecter; she had met him personally not even a handful of times. So she remained in a fine objective position.

She always reprimanded and warned Frederick when he brought up the Ripper case to late-night conversations, first when it was Will and then Hannibal. That he had done enough ethics breaking. That it could come back to bite him in the ass. And while at first she resisted, she proved easily swayed by her own curiosity. She could never resist a good story. He benefited as well, it helped him think to talk it out.

_“I saw you eat the prosciutto.” He said accusingly, both of them already in the car and on the way home._

  _“Never fear, my darling. That was certainly proper prosciutto and of the highest quality. I only ever had the same once in Milan.” She replied calmly._

_He gave her a doubting look before asking, “So? What did you think?”_

_“Give me a moment. It’s all very…baroque.”_

_“Mhm.” He prompted, eager to hear._

_“The colors, lights, even the furniture are very contrasting among each other. A certain chiaroscuro if you will. The whole house, while well illuminated, still had many shadows where one could hide. There’s a kind of decadent, sumptuous cluster. Like a theater. Remember I’m building on what information you have given me.” She went silent for a moment as he slowed the car at a stop light. She was looking out the window, teeth worrying a corner of her bottom lip as she organized her thoughts. He admired the way the city lights played over the naked skin of her shoulders and neck as he waited._

_“If what you say about Hannibal Lecter is true, combining it with the God complex you wrote about on the profile of the Ripper…” She chuckled softly, “It’s fitting and a rather contemptuous to have that Leda and the Swan on such open display were he entertains. If it weren’t the case, it’ll just be an enigmatic eccentricity of a charming man.” She finished with a dismissive flap of her hand._

_“Elaborate, please.” He said, while stepping on the accelerator gently to cross the intersection._

_“You’ve explained that Hannibal has blinded everyone, to look in the other direction and get his way. So, let’s say he’s playing different parts in different situation. The friend, the colleague, the FBI consultant. Very much like Zeus. He disguised himself in various forms to seduce and take what he wanted. A swan with Leda, a bull with Europa, a cloud with Io, a rain of gold for Danae, an eagle for Ganymede, he transformed into Artemis to seduc-“_

_“Sweetheart, you’re trailing off.”_

_“Right. The point is that if indeed that is the case, Dr. Lecter has managed all this carnage unstopped by hiding behind an elaborate persona or various personas while keeping his…final achievements on view. Zeus would transform or embellish his victims in a way as well. The gods work a lot on their own whims, just to see what will happen.”_

He had been so turned on by her connection that they ended up fucking in the foyer yet again.

But it hurt to think about that, when everything had seen so possible. He could have put her in danger by sharing that information. He knew she could choose her words well, but still he worried. From this house, he found it impossible the thought of meeting her again. If they did, he couldn’t imagine going back to how it was. It seemed so improbable, after all the trouble this caused both of them. Why take him back, especially now, when he had nothing to offer?

He was now playing house for Will Graham, of all people, to keep sane. And was back to hugging pillows to sleep. These damn pillows didn’t smell of the comforting scent of her hair either, they just smelled of dust and dogs.

Ah, and there’s the telltale scratching from the other side of the door of Buster coming over to say good morning. Damn dog.

He gazes at the clock again. 6:14am. He sighs sadly.

He was of no use staying in bed (and of no use up and about now), so might as well prepare the coffee and start breakfast.

\--

Will was sitting on the living room floor, going over a motorboat manual, when the clank of pans on the stove alerts him that lunch will be ready soon enough. He scratches Sally’s head gently, after the white shepherd rests it on his thigh. He sighs at the now familiar grumbling coming from the kitchen. He came to regret his decision of taking Frederick Chilton into his house, as he knew he would, on the second day of his arrival.

That was because the doctor didn’t leave the guestroom at all on the first day, as far as Will’s knowledge extended. The morning after, he came down fully dressed, demanding newspapers and carrying a list of things for Will to get him with a few dollar bills to cover the cost. He was characteristically haughty and presumptuous about it. Ridiculous, really. Will had half a mind ready to kick him out. He certainly had other more important things in mind to go out of his way to make the psychiatrist feel comfortable.

That first week had been awkward, to say the least. Chilton wandered the house or sat about the living room staring out the windows like a trapped cat. He was nervous all around, fidgeted constantly, would be startled by the dogs. He would bolt into hiding at the sound of tires on the house’s driveway, which he still did.

 Chilton dressed as if ready to leave the first four days, until he seemed to realize his stay was truly indefinite. Will then pulled out some of his old clothes and pajamas to lend him; he wasn’t sure how much he had in the traveling bags. Even the humiliated look on the man’s face when he passed the folded clothing, had been a little hard for Will to look at.

They barely spoke then. The only times they did was when the doctor would ask about the state of his persecution and his girlfriend. Infrequently about Dr. Lecter, a subject Will tried to avoid in his own home. Never of the crying or shouting nightmares that came from upstairs the first few nights.

Chilton had sagged in relief when learning that the FBI will not be making a public announcement on their new suspect in the near future while they continued the investigation, due to the losing all track on him. They couldn't continue showcasing their humiliations at the hands of the Ripper. Chilton was last spotted leaving Maryland in direction to Virginia, every route followed to a dead end of information. Will’s house was the last place anyone would look into.

On the subject of his girlfriend, Will informed him that she had been taken in for questioning andwas kept under watch due to the nature of the case and circumstances. Will had expected Chilton to brighten at hearing that she defended him fiercely, but he frowned deeply and fell into a near disconcerting silence. After a moment he abruptly changed the subject and offered to make tea. Her relationship with Frederick had put her on an unfortunate spotlight, if she proved to have any knowledge of the crimes and to have provided cover for the Ripper in some way; she would be considered an accomplice and arrested.

Will figures everyone was surprised to find that Chilton was involved in a serious relationship. Even Hannibal Lecter, he imagines, when he sneaked into their home to set his trap and found that Chilton wasn’t living alone.  

Will couldn’t picture Chilton in any of the sort, even when he was aware of it by hospital gossip. So Dr. Chilton seemed slightly less pathetic when Will was brought in to the BSHFCI, a lifetime of loneliness and failing wasn’t erased by a few months of good care.

She had earned herself a small group of admirers among the orderlies for bringing baked goods when she stopped by to visit their boss. And with reason, if he was honest, her chocolate cookies were positively sinful. Matthew Brown had sneaked him samples for dessert a couple of times. Will also heard of other things that went on in the good doctor’s office when she visited, but that was none of his business. It didn’t surprise him, it was Chilton after all; the only surprise was that someone would actually want to do it with him.

When he got really bored in his cell and couldn’t bare thinking of anything else and young Matthew had slipped a cookie in his dinner tray, he tried to imagine the type of person that would involve themselves with Chilton. Either an idiot he had emotionally manipulated into staying and did his bidding or someone who had the doctor eating from the palm of their hand and got whatever they wanted. In any situation he imagined, someone was taking advantage of somebody. If that was the case, Will hoped it was the latter.

Though, remembering the cheery college professor he met long ago, she didn’t seem like either type. But then again, you never know with people in relationships. Maybe he was being harsh on her person because of his dislike for Frederick. Maybe it was one of those odd and rare situations where the right people meet at the right time and they’re meant to be. Probably that didn’t speak too well about her either, he mused, being the right person for someone like Chilton.  

As Frederick settled into the new living arrangements, he kept himself occupied by keeping the house organized and cooking. Will brought him newspapers and puzzle books to keep him entertained when the documentary channel couldn’t, and to not have a repeat of having the bookshelves reorganized completely.  Chilton was neurotic and picky, and Will was sure he didn’t complain constantly about everything because he understood his relative freedom depended on his host’s consideration. That woman must have the patience of a saint.

Interestingly, Will found, one of the few redeeming qualities of his new roommate was his genuine adoration for the woman he lived with. He didn’t speak of her often but the subject sneaked in conversations. Will sometimes encouraged it. Since it kept the conversation away from himself and it served as distraction. He had enough psychoanalyzing going on as it was.

Chilton was a better cook than he seemed. Over the course of the last three weeks Will had enjoyed a variety of simple, hardy meals when he ate there. Many of them he explained to have learned from his sweetheart’s repertoire. The profiler made a mental note to thank her for the fine vegan chili from two nights ago.

When Will would offer another drink of whisky after dinner, it loosened Chilton’s tongue and he would add some tender detail or memory about her. When Frederick mentions her, there’s underlining his voice a warmth that to the profiler’s ears seems almost foreigner to his ex-psychiatrist. There’s a certain reverence when he spoke her name that hinted to Will the hopelessness of the situation, that he seemed to think he’ll never see her again. 

What conversations they had after dinner, had Will considering that Frederick wasn’t a bad drinking partner. It was good for the heart to joke a bit at Hannibal’s expense. He’s revealed little to the doctor of his plan to catch Lecter, and what little he has has been in way of unburdening himself.  He still juggled with how much he could reveal to him. He knew Chilton didn’t appreciate the silence.

They also made strange viewing the professor’s second interrogation last week, knowing things like what Frederick thought of gifting her for Christmas (‘Two kittens, since she couldn’t have them at her place. She’d name them something ridiculous and I’d spent a fortune in lint rollers, but she’d be happy.’). It was more like seeing a character you’ve read about appear on the TV screen.

She looked tired but put-together sitting in front of Jack Crawford, dressed professionally and her hands crossed above her lap. She was well guarded and harder to read emotionally than Frederick. Jack asked her what they did and where on certain dates thought out the last year for the second time to confirm with her answers from the day they found the bodies in Chilton’s house. She answered quickly and methodically.  A few of the Ripper crimes, like the murders of Berverly Katz and Sheldon Isley and the kidnapping of Abel Gideon, conflicted with dates and nights-in together.  

Her voice was calm when she answered, but Will could hear the suppressed sighs. Her expression was neutral most of the time. Illustrations of the Wounded Man were brought out under the probability such an image was discussed between them, given her profession. She explained to have written a paper on medical illustrations years ago and was familiar with those images since before she had met Frederick. She had no memory of ever discussing them with him, nor did he seem to show a great interest in them.

Only when Jack suggested the possibility of Chilton having used light hypnosis to hide such activities while they were together, did she lose any composure. Her face twisted into a mask of outraged disbelief before she schooled her features.

  _“What unorthodox methods Frederick may or may not have used in his hospital, he certainly did not bring home.” She replied._

_“Was Dr. Chilton in the habit of bringing home work and files?”_

_“He was, but he dealt with it less and less as we started spending time together. He preferred to leave paperwork at the office then.”_

_“Did he ever discuss with you confidential information on the Ripper case?”_

_“No.”_

_“Did Dr. Chilton ever discuss his patients with you, concretely Will Graham?”_

_“No.”_

_“Did Dr. Chilton inform you of his suspicions of Hannibal Lecter as the Chesapeake Ripper?”_

_“No.”_

_Will saw her eyes flicker quickly to glass screen between the interrogation room and where he stood watching alone._

_“Do you still stand by your defense of Dr. Chilton’s innocence and that this was some sort of set up?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Have you received any messages or had contact with him or with someone in his behalf in the last week?”_

_“No.”_

_“Where do you think Chilton escaped to?”_

_“I…I don’t know.” Will watched her frown slightly._

_“Can you think of any place that he would go to in this situation?”_

_“Beyond my old apartment, no. He won’t go to his family.” Her frown deepened and her eyes flickered to the table._

_There was silence as Jack Crawford regarded her. “Do you believe he’s alive?”_

_“No.” Her voice was very soft and her eyes hard as she looked back at Jack._

_“How so?”_

_It took her a moment to answer. Will noticed how she clenched her jaw and swallowed before speaking, as if preparing herself._

_“I think Frederick was murdered by the Ripper.”_

Will told Chilton about the interrogation, but didn’t share that she thought him dead. He didn’t think it would be taken very well. It also made him feel guilty, another reason to catch Hannibal.

She seems stronger than he imagined and what impressed Will was that she unblinkingly lied to the FBI. He probably won’t have caught it hadn’t Frederick, with four glasses of whisky in him, told him about taking her to Lecter’s dinner party. She knew far more than she let on and kept it wrapped nicely. He figures the adoration to be mutual, she’s both protecting what reputation Chilton had left (even him, if she thought there was a chance of life) and herself.

Will knows Jack’s desperate and with her they had hit another dead end as it was meant to, it’s the wrong direction to look into. It was unlikely that she’ll be called in for another session and they won’t be checking on her often once they return her stuff from the lab. 

He didn’t think she was under any danger from Hannibal himself. He’s set a proper distraction and knows that no one would pay much heed if the professor were to point her finger at him.

The smell of chickpeas and red peppers comes into the living room accompanied by Chilton’s voice.

“No, no, it’s not for you. Go! Will, could you get this dog out of the way?”

Will looks toward the hallway to see Chilton trying to step around an energetic Buster while carrying two soup plates. He whistles and Buster quickly comes to him. Chilton huffs dramatically as he walks toward the small table by the window. The small dog soon runs back in his direction as Will stands up.

Out of all his dogs it’s Buster, Winston and Sally that have taken a shine to this new addition. But Buster, especially. Maybe he found a sort of kindred spirit, Will didn’t know. He now had his front paws on Chilton’s thigh, looking up expectantly while the doctor tries to glare him away.

Will sits opposite on the table, watches him sigh in defeat and scratch Buster behind the ears. Jack was already doubting Chilton as the Chesapeake Ripper and rightfully so. Who could seriously believe Frederick was a killer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it's not clear, Chilton's POV takes place two weeks after the framing. While Will's is after three. Sort of moving it along that way. 
> 
> The dream should not be taken as an allusion to the Professor's fate. I thought it would be a good way to express Frederick's feelings of paranoia, fear and impotence at his situation. I figure Chilton to be someone whose mind goes straight to the worse possible thing that could happen. And as a workaholic, he needs to be occupied so he's a bit of a housekeeper now.
> 
> Wanted to use Will as a way to see the members of our couple from an outsider's perception. 
> 
> The next chapter will be the Professor's train of thought and feelings, how she's handling it. It'll also put us right on track for the next part of the story. ;)
> 
> As always, I can't wait to read your thoughts, comments and suggestions!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out much longer than expected and unexpectedly hard to write. Decided to take out a few things because of length. I tried to sort out the timeline for them.
> 
> This takes places a couple of days after Will's POV. It's mostly the Professor, but you get some Chilton in there. I hope you enjoy this and it leaves you wanting more.
> 
> tw: very fleeting reference to a past abusive relationship and suicide not related to the story and not referring to the main characters.

_She sat and paced for two hours in a lackluster waiting room. No one had explained anything; she had been put in one of the vans driven by an agent and told to wait. She was full of nervous energy. What could possibly have happened? And where the hell was Frederick?_

_She comforted herself thinking that if something had happened to him, death or injury, they would have told her from the start. But there was little consolation in the silence._

_She was then escorted to one of those interrogation rooms, the likes she’s only seen in cop shows, and told to wait. It must have been twenty or thirty minutes of sitting uncomfortably at the table in the middle of the room and staring at the glass screen before Agent Crawford entered. He carried a file folder with him; she watched him as he walked in and sat across from her._

_“What is happening? Where’s-“_

_Jack Crawford raised a hand slightly to stop her, “Before answering those, we need to ask you some questions in regards to your relationship to Dr. Chilton.”_

_Her heart hammered away with worry as she stared back at the agent’s guarded face. She leaned her arms on the table and crossed her legs as she answered a few personal and work questions, which did little to calm her._

_“How long have you known Dr. Chilton?”_

_“About ten months.”_

_“And how long you’ve been involved with him romantically?”_

_“Practically the same amount of time. We started dating soon after we met.” Her eyes flickered to the folder on the table and she tried to stop her right foot from shaking incessantly with impatience._

_“I understand you live together now. Since when?”_

_“Late September.” She suppressed the urged to rub her face tiredly.”So, two months and a half.” She added._

_“Before then, did you see each other frequently?”_

_“Yes. I’ve spent most of my nights and weekends with him since spring, really.” Where the hell was this going?_

_“When did you last see him?” Agent Crawford continued._

_“This morning when he left for work.”_

_“Did you have any contact with him through the day?”_

_“Just a few texts to see what we’d do for dinner.”_

_“Did you notice him acting suspicious or changing his routine in any way throughout the last week?”_

_“No.”_

_He opened his mouth to speak after a moment of silence but she interrupted._

_“Agent Crawford, please, what happened to Frederick? Is he…Was he the one they…” Once again she found herself unable to finish the thought._

_“Professor, what we found today at your home was two murdered FBI agents and a half-eaten Abel Gideon. The only trace of Dr. Chilton was the evidence holding him accountable.”_

_“What?”_

_He heaved a sigh and shook his head sadly, “Furthermore, the way the murders were conducted link him to the ones committed by the Chesapeake Ripper. We need whatever information you can give us to find him.”_

_She stared at the man sitting before her in disbelief when a short hysterical laugh escaped her. She leaned back into the chair, covering her lips with her fingers. “You’re saying Frederick is the Chesapeake Ripper?”_

_“I understand this is a hard and painful situation to process, professor. All evidence points to him and what happened today provided an overwhelming amount of it.”_

_She started at him long and hard, taking a deep breath to compose herself before replying. “This is a terrible misunderstanding. You must excuse me, agent Crawford, but that’s probably the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”_

She shifts uncomfortably on Ivan’s lumpy maroon sofa as she remembers. Those had been the most emotionally grueling hours she’s experienced in four years and most likely on the top list of her life. She spent the entire night answering questions and repeating that Frederick would never kill anyone, not even Gideon.

_“He hated Gideon and wanted him as far away as possible. I know it took a lot out of him to bring him back to the hospital, but Frederick just preferred to have the least to do with him. It’s a long trench to butchering the man.”_

_“How would you explain the appearance of Gideon in your guestroom? Did you not notice anything strange, like noises coming from the cellar?”_

_She rubbed her forehead. “He wasn’t there, none of those things where there. It must have been set up while we were out. I went to the guestroom a week ago and it was just a normal room with a bed and a bathroom.” She stopped to sigh, “I fetched a bottle of wine from the cellar not two nights ago and there wasn’t anything strange.”_

She’ll certainly never forget the pictures of the limbless surgeon and the dead agents that Crawford showed her.  She snorts humorlessly as she stares at the ceiling from where she’s laying. Yes, the man who’s nauseated by the sight of skinned rabbits is going to gut an officer on his own kitchen counter. 

As the night progressed, it dawned on her what was happening. She kept glancing toward the glass screen and she began to choose her words more carefully, remembering what Frederick had told her in regard to the Ripper and Hannibal Lecter.

_“Wasn’t Will Graham wrongly accused? Set up? Why can’t this be the same thing?” She asked the agent late into the session._

But the agent sighed in frustration before leaving the room. It wasn’t until midnight that they let her go and offered to take her to her old apartment, but she refused. She called Ivan, who arrived as quickly as possible, looking frazzled and in his pajamas. He drove to his place as she sat in the passenger’s seat in a stunned silence. It wasn’t until she found herself in his guest room that the realization that she didn’t know if she’ll ever see Frederick again came crashing down on her and she ended up crying on Ivan’s shoulder. She couldn’t explain to him everything, but he held her all night.

She wasn't able to discuss it openly with anyone, the weight of keeping the situation to herself has been crushing her nerves through out the weeks.

She had to break a tenant’s contract, who was moving in a week to her place, since she found herself with nowhere to go. There was only furniture and kitchen’s appliances there, but she couldn’t stay at Ivan’s. He had his life; she couldn’t impose herself like that. Everything else she owned was at Frederick’s and under investigation. And what if Frederick was somewhere lurking about? If he needed somewhere to hide or contact her, she’d be there. But her apartment felt different now. Inadequate, really, would be the word.

That first week had been disastrous. She didn’t go to work for two days while she came out of her stupor and bought new clothing. Once back, she couldn’t concentrate. It was too sudden a change. She had become so accustomed to having him around and working their routines together. Her mind continued wondering where was Frederick and when would this stupid joke end and when could she go back home with him.

She missed him so much, it was disconcerting to the extreme. He was always on her mind. It felt like a gaping wound below her chest. She marvels at how quickly that grumpy face and big eyes and dramatic personality went from warming and amusing her heart to becoming home.

Very early in life she learned that for her home, that ever eluding concept, would never be a place. Rather, a person or selected group of people. She and her mother moved around a lot until she was twelve. It wasn’t that her mother couldn’t keep a job; it seemed more like bad luck with housing and people. Bad apartments, bad landlords, bad towns and bad checks. Then her mother met a fine, decent man named Thomas and they settled near family. They were home then.

But when she took off for college, it became a pattern unconsciously resumed. It was almost like an itch. She changed universities a couple of times as an undergrad, then it was between jobs while she was between college and grad school, and somehow she managed to never remain in one place for long. Two years in a city if she was lucky, she always knew how little time she’d stay once she set foot somewhere. It was like never unpacking your luggage, from roach infested apartment to roach infested apartment, city to city.

There were always certain friends and cousins that helped her feel at home, even when Thomas died and her mother changed so significantly. She was scattered, but could still knock on a door and the smiles would be homely.  But time and people take their toll and she started to feel too old for it, the starting over anew.

After finishing school, she’d been blessed to get a job in Chicago fairly quickly. She reunited with childhood friend Rosa, and moved in with her and some fantastic people. She met someone soon afterwards and the sudden stability afforded her the time to actually fall into a relationship. Everything seemed set and done, Chicago was looking like home and she was in love.

Then things changed, like they often do, quite unexpectedly. The relationship she had become so invested in became abusive and she found herself ridden with insecurity and anxiety, clutching a gin bottle to sleep. She became miserable. Her insomnia was rampant and dependent on liquor to shut it down. Not her best times, certainly.

Fortunately, it didn’t take too long for her to hurl the bottle at his head and get herself out of there, returning to her place with Rosa and the girls. The tranquility didn’t last long. Four months later, her contract with the university was terminated and she found Rosa had drained herself in the tub. Home fell apart again. She felt guilty for so long, felt that the selfishness of her own problems blinded her from helping Rosa through hers. Their other roommates felt the same, like they’ve missed something. How could things change so in two years?

Ivan’s call about a job in his city seemed heaven sent.

She stayed long enough in Chicago to bury Rosa and help her friends find another place, before stuffing her life in her car and driving through tears the 700 miles to Baltimore. The first few months were hard but she settled in with the help of Ivan and her new colleagues.  She was stable and fine and hadn’t touched clear spirits since Rosa died. She slept well and felt happy. It was fine, if a bit lonely. Home, but something was missing.

Good times flies and she was settling in her third year in Baltimore. Soon Frederick came along. He was all nerves, sarcasm and loneliness. But also gentle, funny and surprisingly caring. How quickly he managed to carve himself a niche in her heart. Their first ‘official’ month was a bit of a hit and miss in a few things, but it had flowed so naturally for the most part. It was effortless, the intimacy, the simply being together. They fitted well. Like when he’d tuck his face in the crook of her neck or she’d wrap herself around his stout body, it measured perfectly.

She found herself trying to make him smile to bask in the brilliance of his rare, genuine grins. The way he’d look at her a little hopeful and a little heated, ever so wanting, left her short of breath. When he’d reach out for her hand in the dead of night to entwine their fingers, had her warm and sighing. Their kisses were matched in passion. They found in each other good companions for bad nights, for his nightmares and her occasional sleeplessness.   

One day as she watched him fuss over some papers, the realization that she was irrevocably in love with that silly man surprised her. After so long of keeping at bay from those feelings, it sneaked up on her, but she soon found she had little to protest about. She was well aware of his shortcomings as he was of hers, but they found ways of working around them.

He liked to complain that she never took things seriously and he’d get huffy when she replied that she certainly did but just the actual important things, unlike someone else.  It’ll probably not work as smoothly between them another way, it was balance. He had admitted that he never used to smile so much, so easily, and she had been very happy and very humbled to hear it. She liked taking care of him, even cooking for him; and he did love being cared for and showed it with as much cuddles and mushy gestures as he could. Even sometimes with ridiculously expensive gifts.

One thing she had never experienced before were so many tender moments with someone and she’s grown to hoard and guard them.  They were small things, holding each other’s gaze over the dinner table, sharing mischievous smiles in public, seating side by side on rainy day. Or the little touches, the gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek, her hands through his soft hair, leaving a fleeting kiss under his jaw, the heaviness of his hand on her waist, trailing his profile with her fingertips.

_It was the afternoon before Hannibal Lecter’s dinner party and they were both getting ready. She watched him prepare to shave his face in front of the bathroom mirror, as she wrapped a short robe around herself.  He used one of those heavy safety razors and always kept the fine shaving cream stocked up, he loathed leaving his skin dried and irritated with the cheap stuff.  He had let his stubble grow out in the last few days and she was sad to see it go. But he wanted to look as sharp as possible tonight._

_She felt suddenly sentimental. “May I?”_

_“What?” He asked back looking at her._

_“Shave the stubble for you.”_

_He looked at her with raise eyebrows, unsure. “Do you even know how to use this?”_

_“Yes, actually, an aunt taught me. When I was a teenager, I made a pretty penny many a summer out of a bunch of cousins who wanted to be all macho trying to get their beards and mustaches to grow.”_

_A smile pulled at his lips, “I didn’t know of this business side of yours.”_

_“Well, I’m a woman of many talents.” She replied, coming to stand next to him._

_“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that.” Smirking his devious smirk, he reached to pinch her bum but she playfully smacked his hand away._

_He looked at the razor in his other hand for a moment and almost hesitantly handed it over. Smiling, she instructed him to seat at the edge of the tub. “Any fatalities during your barber years?” He asked as he watched her fill a glass with warm water to wash the razor._

_“There was a scare with Tony when I nicked him on the neck and he tried to prank me with a fake arterial spray. Got himself a kick in the balls for that. You have nothing to fear, darling, I have very steady hands.”_

_He eyed the razor in her hand warily. “You ready?” She asked, a bit worried that this could be reminding of a far more unpleasant experience._

_He nodded and she leaned in to give his lower face a closer look, to see where she had to work with. She saw how he averted his eyes upward and his cheeks darken with a blush as she inspected him. She dropped a quick kiss on the tip of his nose before fetching the shaving cream and brush._

_“Why this sudden interest in holding a blade to my throat?” He asked trying and succeeding in looking haughty as she smeared his cheeks with shaving cream. She stood between his legs as she worked, his fingers moved to caress the skin of her legs fondly._

_She rolled her eyes. “Suspicious as always, I see.” She lifted his chin a little more with gentle fingers to lather his neck as well. “My mother used to do this sometimes for her husband, and I always thought it incredibly romantic.”_

_She placed the cream and brush on the edge of the tub and grabbed the razor. “Sentimentality, really.” She spoke again as she placed a hand on his chin to keep him steady and held the razor against his cheek._

_He closed his eyes as he felt the gentle swipe of the blade on his skin. He clearly enjoyed getting pampered like this. He let her work in a comfortable silence; he’d sigh softly if she caressed him with her fingers and distracted himself by studying her face. A warm tension grew between them as she continued. It wasn’t unpleasant or uneasy, just heavy with the awareness of each other. It turned out to be a far more intimate experience than either of them expected._

_When she finished, with only a tiny nick under his jaw (for which she apologized with kisses), she made a show of presenting him professionally with a big hand-held mirror to inspected the work. It helped ease the tender heaviness. He made an impressed expression as he felt the smoothness of the shave._

_He let her wipe his face gently with a cold cloth. She gathered some aftershave in her palms and patted his neck and skin with it. “There, very handsome.” She said softly, fondly, hands cupping his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks gently. The tenderness grew. His hands came to grasp her hips and as she stared down at his face, he got that sweet shy look. The one that made him look very young and endearing._

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you too” She whispered back and leaned to give him a short but ardent kiss before walking away to get ready._

She presses a hand hard against her eyes. She’s so angry; she didn’t want to cry anymore. This is so unfair. She just wanted her Frederick back alive. But with each passing day of nothing but his silence, she grew in the certainty that he was dead.

If he was hiding somewhere safe, she was sure he would have contacted her. At least to tell her he was alive and well. She knew it was him who called her that afternoon, but why didn’t he say anything? She sighs as she sits up on the couch to look over the paper-littered coffee table. She rubs her face and blinks repeatedly to clear her bleary vision. The second worse thing about this situation was that it brought the insomnia back. She just managed a nap on Ivan’s couch, but the break was short and she was back to her thoughts.

She knows Frederick well. If he managed to escape from Hannibal Lecter, who helped him then? He didn’t come to her, or his family. He didn’t have friends to help him in this situation and he couldn’t have done it alone. He would have been too frazzled and anxious to be careful. Will Graham crossed her mind as a possibility, but why would Graham help him? He was Frederick’s former patient and collaborated for the FBI. If Frederick went to him, he would have just called the agents.

The only probable conclusion was his death. Framed and killed by Hannibal Lecter. On a particularly bad night, when the clock hit 5:00am and she hadn’t been able to close her eyes, she morbidly thought of what dish Dr. Lecter would have made out of Frederick. It had made her sick. Throughout the weeks she’d read every news article about a found body with apprehension, expecting it to finally be the discovery of Frederick Chilton’s corpse.  The uncertainty of his fate was most exhausting.

Sometimes when she was out, getting gas or crossing a parking lot or buying flour, she had to do double-takes when her mind would fool her. For a fleeting moment someone’s profile or stance would become Frederick’s and for that moment her heart would lighten again. But it wasn’t him.

Earlier this week her clothes were given back to her in a box, almost a month later. She almost didn’t recognize Jimmy Price in his white robe. For some reason he’s sympathetic glance rubbed her the wrong way. She had solicited permission to enter Frederick’s house to fetch other things. Jack Crawford allowed her to do so, escorted by two agents as to not disturbed anything that didn’t need to. Yesterday morning she went back. It felt like entering a funeral home. It was hard to breathe.

She crossed the kitchen and dining room as fast a she could without running, surfaces were still violently painted in dried blood, now turned brown. She fetched some of her books out of the living room shelves under the watchful eyes of the agents. She wasn’t afforded any privacy as she entered what was their room or when she got her underwear and jewelry box in a bag. She was so angry and so tired.

But what could she do? She had no way of confirming Frederick’s fate or Dr. Lecter’s culpability. She’s done what she could by defending Frederick’s innocence. If she went to Lecter for answers, she’ll probably be killed. And what good would she be of, then? She went on with work and life, hoping for them.

She stands and walks into Ivan’s kitchen for a glass of water. She still spent a few nights a week there, since it was far more comforting than her half-organized apartment. Her purse sat beside the batch of cinnamon buns she made this morning on the counter. She’s been trying to canalize the stress of the situation by indulging in other activities which were not drinking it away. Though she won’t admit to a few nights of giving in to wine to force herself to relax and feel nicer, she was trying to keep it under control. When Ivan brought her to his place, he had emptied the apartment of any booze. She had found it so irritating then, but it was for the best and she appreciated it. Frederick won’t have wanted her drinking like that. So, she’s been baking since she found it hard to concentrate on research. The physicality of cooking helped her manage the energy.   

She finds herself staring blankly at the cinnamon buns, her mind wondering on answers. Answers that could help her sleep again and start closing the wound of Frederick’s loss. She grabs her purse and pulls out her day planner. Opening it to the current week, she grabs a piece of ripped cuadriculated paper from between the pages. On it was a hastily written physical address, she reads it a couple of times.

She looks at the stacked cinnamon buns. She lifts her eyes to read the time on the wall clock, if she left now she could make it there just after dinner.  She looks back at the cinnamon rolls. Well, her mother taught her it was good manners to arrive at a house with gifts. Especially when one’s uninvited.  

\--

An hour later she was slowing into the drive way of the house.

‘What are you doing?!’

On the way here, she felt her resolve weaken, her purpose grow hazy.  But she needed to talk this out, for a little peace and a few hours of sleep. She stops her car and looks at the house apprehensively, the first floor had the lights on.

She sighs, not sure if from relief or nerves. She checks her appearance on the rear view mirror to give herself a moment before exiting the car with the wrapped plate of pastries. She treads the fresh snow carefully, walks up the stairs and knocks.

When she doesn’t hear any movements, she takes a breath before knocking again and calling out.

“Mr. Graham?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was good and that it flows and fits well with the rest of the story. Really want to hear what you guys think of the character. I wanted to transmit that they both somehow found refuge in each other.
> 
> I can't wait to read your thoughts, comments and suggestions!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Professor and Will finally get to talking. 
> 
> It took a while since I've very busy and I was struggling with 'seeing' the Professor clearly. I worked a few things over in the previous chapter and probably will go over it a little more in the future as she develops as a character. It wasn't until I wrote this one that I noticed that the background I gave her is similar to Will's and I almost threw my computer across the room. But then I relaxed because they're different and so are their families. 
> 
> I hope this doesn't read too hurried, I rewrote their conversation so many times.

The head lights coming into the living room through the porch windows alert him before anything else. The sound of tires is dulled by the snow on the driveway.  Will stands from the couch and strains his neck a little to catch a glimpse of a car he doesn’t recognize. Who the hell could it be at this hour?

Frederick was back in the kitchen, having cleared the table after dinner. He walks into the living room as the lights are turned off. Will’s hears the sharp intake and the sound of him crouching down to the floor. Chilton crawls to gathers his folded laundry from the armrest of the couch and the little notebook he kept.

“Goddamn it, William. You sure receive plenty of visitors for living in the middle of nowhere.”  Will hears him hiss from below, referring to Margot Verger’s visit. In any other situation he would have rolled his eyes, the doctor has taken to calling him William when mad.

He stays facing the door as he listens to Frederick scramble about. His eyes widen at catching sight of the woman climbing unto the porch before she knocks.

They both freeze instinctively, a couple of the dogs wander curiously toward the door and bark.  Frederick was already set on fleeing down the hallway.  Silence hangs heavy in the room.

Another knock is quickly followed by a feminine voice. “Mr. Graham?”

He turns around quickly at the sound of Frederick’s whispering her name in disbelief, finding him tense and clutching the washed clothes to his chest. “Is that-Am I…” He tries to whispers again but he can’t finish. His eyes remain wide and fixated on the closed door.

“Frederick, go up stairs.” Will tells him slowly, “Now.”

But he remains unmoving, as if expecting her to let herself into the house.

“One moment!” He shouts toward the door, before fixing Frederick with a hard stare.

“Go.” He pushes Frederick by the shoulder to prompt him to move. Chilton takes a shaky breath and glares back fiercely. Will responds by pointing to the hallway.

Frederick turns away slowly, eyes flicking to the door. Will only walks toward the door once he hears the doctor’s steps on the stair. He shoos the dogs away from the door and once he opens it, he looks at the young woman. His eyes flicker down her face and settle on the bright blue of her scarf as it bunches up around her jaw and chin from under her coat. The color stands out under the porch lights and its brightness seems almost out of place.

“Good evening, professor.” There’s no use in pretending not to remember her.

“I hope I don’t catch you at a bad time.” Her lips shift to a small, apologetic smile.

“I was clearing away dinner. Come in.”  He replies as he steps aside to let her enter.

“Well, I brought some cinnamon rolls. An odd treats after dinner, but they’re sweet enough. Oh, hello.” She greets the dogs as she walks in and steps around them. 

There’s a hint of pleased surprise in her voice and between the offer of pastries, the easiness of this first interaction, everything that has happened in last couple of weeks, the psychiatrist hiding upstairs…Will can’t help shaking his head at the amalgam of surreal and contrasting scenarios that now form his life.

“Thanks. Can I offer you a drink?” He points to the whiskey bottle on the table as he takes the plate from her. He suspects what she’s here for and fixing her a drink could buy his mind a little more time to slide into the place it needs to be.

“Yes, I’ll appreciate it.” He notices her eyes going over his living room, taking in details as she slips dark gloves from her hands.

“You know, the FBI could still be keeping an eye on you.” Will places the plate down and reaches for the whisky bottle.

“I borrowed a friend’s car.” She says dryly.

He pours the liquor into two tumblers and turns his head slightly to look at her. “I hope you’re not taking to stealing for this.”

She merely looks back with a raised eyebrow and small smile, “I left a note.”

He hums and turns around completely with drink in hand.  “Now I’m curious as to how you came across my address.”

“It’s a matter of knowing who to ask and things don’t turn out to be as confidential as one would expect in a hospital.” She slides off her coat and accepts a glass. “Thank you.”’

“And I gather it’s the former administrator of said hospital that brings you here.” He motions to the chair opposite him as he seats down.

She takes a healthy gulp of whiskey before sighing and sitting. She’s silent for a moment, her eyes focused on the glass in her hands, placed over her crossed legs. He waits, looks at her hands, well-manicured with nails painted a dark red. She doesn’t wear any jewelry. He blinks, remembering her adorned the couple of times he’s seen her.

“I figured talking to the person who knows the Ripper best could help me find out about Frederick.”

When she speaks, she’s looking back at him.

“Know him best?”

“You were his cheat, like Frederick is now, and he was once your psychiatrist.”

Will raises an eyebrow at her, slightly surprised at this frank turn in conversation. “You believe Hannibal Lecter to be responsible?”

“Too much has happened to be coincidence.  Frederick points to him, you’re let out of the hospital, the failed attempt to catch him at the dinner party. Only for a few days later to have three dead people at home and no trace of Frederick. It’s all distraction.”

He stares, it’s…refreshing to hear things stated simply and clearly for once.

“Frederick liked to keep me updated.” She adds belatedly, in way of explanation, with an expression he recognized in the doctor’s face as well.    

“Why haven’t you said any of this to Jack Crawford?” He leans his elbows on his thighs as he sits forward, twirling the tumbler in his hands.

“Would he believe me, when he didn’t believe you or Frederick?” She takes another drink of whiskey, and rubs her right temple. “At this point, I just want to know what has happened to him.”

Will holds her stare for a moment and wonders how much she knows about him. There’s an odd sense of familiarity between them, maybe brought upon by her honesty and their previous knowledge of each other. He looks down at Winston resting at his feet, considering what to tell her.

“You don’t think Frederick could have escaped safely?” He asks tentatively. 

She frowns and takes a short breath before looking away. “I hoped for a few days, but not hearing from him worried me. I mean, where would he have gone? Who would have helped him?”

She purses her lips, “Maybe I haven’t been giving him enough credit, maybe he is safe somewhere.”

There’s silence for a moment then she snorts softly, humorlessly. “But even if he flew off to…I don’t know, Jamaica…the least he could do is sent me a postcard to know he’s alright. I doubt my mail is getting intercepted.”

He eyes her again, she looks tired and heavyhearted sitting across from him. His lips twist slightly, feeling a pang of guilt. While he found it a little hard to understand that it was Frederick Chilton to whom these feelings were directed, he understood.

“You know, I even thought for a moment that he would come to you.” She says suddenly. “But then thought it over better, you would have turned him in or something. I won’t have blamed you for it, given circumstances between you both…”

He keeps his face neutral, knowing she’s watching him. “Hannibal Lecter can be unpredictable.” He says slowly, not wanting to fall into discussion of that particular scenario.

“He’s playing a game, shining light in different directions that will enable him to continue doing what he does. He wants to see what happens.”  Will is sure Hannibal would be damn surprised if he were to find out where Dr. Chilton’s hiding.  He continues after taking a sip from his glass, “Frederick got too close to him.”

“Do you think he killed Frederick?” She asks softly.

He looks at her before resting his gaze on the tumbler in his hands. It was hard not telling her who she’s searching for is right upstairs. He feels the weight of her stare on his face. What harm could it do letting her know? He considers. He would rather control the information he has close while he works Hannibal, if he can keep things as they’ve been for now everything would go fine. Or so he hopes.

“Not knowing, I think it’s the worst part.” She says and he’s not sure how long he’s remained silent. “The possibility that he could be somewhere lonely, scared, in pain. Or…if that man was capable of doing _that_ to Abel Gideon, what could he have done to Frederick?” She pauses before continuing in a soft voice, “I keep imagining him dead, his body butchered and thrown in some remote location, alone and never to be found.”

Her brow furrows, “It’s hard to comprehend that something so terrible could be the fate of someone you love.” 

His eyes linger on the sad dip of her lips, the sorrowful tone of her words, and he thinks of Abigail.

She’s been watching him closely since he opened the door. She had felt nervous standing on his porch but when he answered and greeted her, the sadness lining his eyes took her aback. She wasn’t nervous anymore, though she felt guilty about popping out of nowhere at his house to talk such wretched talk.

It hasn’t answered anything so far, but talking about the situation freely and honestly offered respite. 

Will Graham looked different from what she remembered. They couldn’t be too far apart in age. Having grown accustomed to seeing his picture in the news, she thought he looked quite younger in person. He seemed too young to look so sad. But she knew age and sadness had no correlation.

She remembers Frederick talking about Will.  Upholding that even if he wasn’t the murderer the FBI was looking for; he was still a very much a cunning and dangerous man.  She remembers feeling for him a little when Frederick told her a few things about his childhood, about moving around a lot and being raised by a single parent.

She observes his handsome face, his eyes staring away, unseeing. She wonders if it was something she said that caused him to suddenly be lost in thought. It was hard to imagine, from simply looking at him, that he was involved in all she’s read and heard about before. There was something about him, in the shadow of his brow, his house, the seven dogs spread around their feet, which spoke of a noble character.

And he was also not telling her something.  She wasn’t sure if his prolonged silences were denying or confirming her fears. She didn’t want to hassle him, she was a patient woman. But this whole situation was grating her to the bone.

She blinks against the heaviness behind her eyes and takes a drink. The hot burn is soothing. Her foot bobs slightly in anxiety. The movement attracts the attention of one of Will’s smaller dogs.

“You can’t tell me what could have happened to Frederick?” She asks cautiously, feeling the tension in the room.

He shrugs slowly without looking at her. Her eyes squint slightly as she tries to catch his gaze. She can’t help but feel a trickle of suspicion.

“I’m going to prove Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper.” He finally looks back.

“I know you will.” She replies. Opening her mouth to speak, she’s interrupted by one of the dogs. The little one with brown spots had walked over and was now standing on his hind legs, nudging her hands on her lap with his nose.

Will clicks his tongue and calls him. “Buster, get back.”

“It’s alright.” She assures and drops a hand on the dog’s head, scratching behind his ears.

Buster’s intervention breaks the heaviness between them. Will watches his dog’s tail wag in excitement and the small smile on the woman’s lips. He feels a wave of gratitude toward the little canine and takes advantage of the distraction.

“You like dogs?”

“Yeah, but I’ve had cats all my life. Always wanted a pet I could take out for a nice walk, instead of leaving it glaring out the window or finding it in the neighborhood getting into trouble.”

He chuckles, that description certainly fits someone.

“When I was little, we actually had to move because our cat kept killing the neighbor’s chickens and leaving the evidence in front of the house.” She adds.

“I guess you weren’t popular then.”

“Oh, not in the slightest.” She agrees and even when her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, her face softens pleasantly. Will feels a twinge of remorse that this is how they meet.

Eager as ever, Busters attempts to jump into her lap. He proceeds to kick out one of the small cushions and the papers underneath it in an effort to settle in better beside her. She chuckles and pats his sides.

Will sighs heavily and quickly stretches to gathers a crossword puzzle book that spilled out as well. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t worry about that. He’s cute enough to be excused on his own.” She places the tumbler in the small table beside her, scoots to the edge of the chair and bends at the waist to assist him.

She picks up the scattered pieces of papers at her feet before he can and Will takes a deep breath, hoping she doesn’t read them as he spots Frederick’s handwriting. She stretches her arm to hand them over before stopping herself and pulling back. He purses his lips and drinks the rest of the liquor in his glass as he sits back.

The grocery list is practically a copy of the ones Frederick would write up. She blinks repeatedly at the paper, in an attempt to clear her sight if she was mistaken. She focuses once again on the familiar script, the peculiar way he writes his ‘t’ and ‘g’,  and reads the list written in red ink.

There’s shittake mushrooms, avocado, chickpeas, raisin bread, goat cheese, basil , oregano, chocolate and…

The last article makes her rub a hand over her eyes. She turns the paper around to find a more sensible list of ‘milk, eggs and ham’ in another style of handwriting. What in hell is the meaning of this? 

She lets out an angry breath. “Where is Frederick?”

Her voice is sharp and the way her eyes grew cold on him would have been disconcerting had Will not seen the things he’s seen. Buster jumps off his sit beside her at the change in tone.

“It’s not-"

“Please, Mr. Graham. With all respect, you don’t strike me as the type of man who bothers with flower oil hair products.”

He held her stare for moment, before sighing and standing up. Damn it, Buster.

Goddamn it, Frederick.

“Come with me.” He heads toward the hallway without waiting for her. He hears her slow steps behind him. Well, this dilemma solved itself. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her.

He leads her upstairs and walks toward the slightly opened door, a strip of light illuminated the hallway. Frederick must have been trying to listen in. Will waits for her to stand next to him to push the door open.

She had no idea what to expect when she started following Graham. There was no reason for a grocery list written by Frederick to be here, no reason other than him hiding here. Unless she was hallucinating and she was certain this wasn’t the case; or Will was actually the Ripper and had casually taken a piece of paper from their home to write his own list. In that case, how ridiculous and she was now probably being led to her death.

Nothing prepared her for the almost painful wave of relief she experiences when Will pushed the door open and she sees her Frederick. Standing there in front of the door, wearing clothes she didn’t recognize, looking like he was about to be executed, there was her Frederick.  Alive.

He looks her over in disbelief, eyes wide and searching. She feels her brow contorting, the burning grow behind her eyes, and the lump forming in her throat. She doesn’t feel her legs move as she crosses the threshold to wrap her arms around his neck. Her eyes close as one of her hands runs through the hair on the back of his head, relishing in a gestures she thought gone forever. A trembling breath leaves her, “My darling man.”

Will watches her enter the room and hug Frederick to her. The other man responds immediately, gathering her close, hands spreading over her back before fiercely gripping the fabric of her sweater and tightening his embrace.

Not meaning to he meets Frederick’s gaze, whose eyes are big and heavy with tears. Will turns his away quickly, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding in his own house. He bends down to pick up a trailing Buster before the dog sneaks into the room and closes the door. His mouth twists in a bitter expression, detesting the gaping and aching loneliness that settles in his breast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, excuse me if it got absurd. I thought those details to be fun and fitting since the whole show and this particular situation can be a little ridiculous at times. 
> 
> The hair product line can be considered my little ode to Bad Habits by skarletfyre.
> 
> I'm eager to read what you think of her interaction with Will, and of Will himself and of Frederick and Buster. 
> 
> I can't wait to read your thoughts, comments and suggestions!
> 
> Stay tune for the teary reunion, a sprinkle of hysterical laughter and perhaps another guest appearance by Buster Graham.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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